


Write the Pages of Our Story

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), James calling the shots, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Lucky thing you made it back before midnight,” James said, handing back the glass. “You can make it up to me. Save Valentine’s Day.” His fingers worked beneath his chin, pulling at the scarf, unzipping his coat. “I sweated all over that fuckin’ stage. I should take a shower.”</i>
</p><p> <i>“And what should I do?”</i></p><p>
  <i>Lips curving, James moved in for kiss. It was slow, long, and just a little dirty, James’ tongue slipping in Michael’s mouth like a promise, his thumb rubbing over the nape of Michael’s neck when he finally pulled away. “Sit on the sofa,” he murmured. “Sit like you would’ve done in my theatre. Wait.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write the Pages of Our Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For a prompt at tumblr of "salvaged Valentine's date." Somehow it turned into a tiny bit of Valentine's and a whole lot of sex?

Michael’s suit jacket hung neatly in the hotel wardrobe, and his cuff links and heavy silver watch lay on the corner of the chest of drawers. He’d poured himself a glass of over-priced whisky from the minibar, and was just chasing his first sip when the rustling started up on the other side of the door. It was accompanied by swearing - a series of interesting assumptions about the keycard’s parenthood - and, just when Michael was moving to intervene, followed up by an electronic beep.

James’ parka was zipped up as high as it would go, and a thick blue scarf had been pressed into service against the chill. His cheeks were pink with cold, his shoulders were weary and slumped, but when his eyes landed on Michael, they said _delight_. 

“There is he is! The man who missed my opening night.”

“You missed my premiere,” Michael countered, holding out his glass and watching with pleasure as James tipped it back, eyes closing as the liquor hit his throat. He’d wanted to stop for chocolates on the way back, or a really good bottle of wine, or _something_ , but this - being here to greet James the moment he came in - he’d wanted it more.

“Mine was on the calendar first.”

True, but - “Like I have any control over a studio decision.” It was a token protest. James’ eyes were glittering over the rim of the glass, part mirth, part something else, and Michael found himself breathing a bit quicker, wondering if James might decide to act on that _something else_ -

“Lucky thing you made it back before midnight,” James said, handing back the glass. “You can make it up to me. Save Valentine’s Day.” His fingers worked beneath his chin, pulling at the scarf, unzipping his coat. “I sweated all over that fuckin’ stage. I should take a shower.”

“And what should I do?”

Lips curving, James moved in for kiss. It was slow, long, and just a little dirty, James’ tongue slipping in Michael’s mouth like a promise, his thumb rubbing over the nape of Michael’s neck when he finally pulled away. “Sit on the sofa,” he murmured. “Sit like you would’ve done in my theatre. Wait.”

Michael did. His cock had begun to stir - James so often had that effect - and he shifted it as he sat, then let his hand settle there, a friendly weight. Sipping at what remained of his whisky, he listened to the rush of water from the shower, and then, with interest, the sudden change in flow that suggested James had stepped into the torrent.

He leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

Slick rivulets running over James’ body, through his hair, turning it glossy and dark, making the paleness of his skin and the brightness of his eyes stand out in vivid contrast. Strength and muscle, made warm and sleek by water; James with soap in hand, coasting over every dip and ridge.

Michael’s hand, heavy against his crotch, stayed steady, steady, steady, despite the heat pooling hard beneath it. Until, that was, he imagined James sliding the soap low between his legs - up his thighs first, perhaps, then over his balls and along his cock, which would twitch with interest, so that James would be tempted to do it again, to linger over the head -

Michael was thumbing his own tip where it jutted up high, tenting his trousers. He slid his fingers down the hard roll of his cock and let them curl loosely around the base. Breathing out through his nose, he tipped back the last drops of whisky.

The shower stopped. Michael’s glass met the side table with a _clink_.

When James emerged, he wore a plush white hotel robe and nothing more. His skin was dewy and pink, his hair slicked darkly back, and as he came closer, the tie on the robe looked more and more like the ribbon on a gift.

“I don’t know,” James said, stopping inches from Michael’s knees, giving him a considering look. “Sitting in my theatre like _that_ might’ve got you thrown out.”

His heartbeat quickened with James’ proximity, his scrutiny. Michael rolled the flat of his palm over his cock, long and slow, just to watch James’ eyes track the motion. “Don’t think I’m good at waiting.”

“Well, maybe you need to practise,” James said. “Maybe you need to put both hands on the sofa. Yeah. Like that.”

The robe gaped open as James threw a leg over to straddle Michael’s lap, an invitation Michael was forbidden from accepting. Dark curls, rosy skin, and the hang of James’ cock, not fully hard yet, the tip still sheathed by foreskin, but swelling. Yes.

The upholstery was flat and cool under his palms, and determination alone kept Michael’s fingertips from digging in like claws as he struggled not to touch. But his hips were impossible to control, and he bucked up into James’ warm weight, seeking more pressure, his hands as desperate to grip James’ waist and grind him down as they were to cup that burgeoning cock.

And James’ hands were conspicuous by their absence, braced on the sofa behind Michael’s head rather than engaged anywhere on Michael’s person. But his mouth was busy, kissing along Michael’s neck and jaw, finally crashing down on Michael’s lips as his hips pressed hard against Michael’s front, pinning his twitching cock against Michael’s stomach.

He owned Michael’s mouth, just as Michael knew he’d owned every inch of that stage. James knew how to set a pace and exactly how long to keep it, and his lips moved firmly and deliriously slowly over Michael’s until quite suddenly they didn’t. Every muscle in Michael’s body strained to follow as those lips pulled away.

“You’re -” Michael cleared his husky throat. “You’re working too hard. If I’m meant to be making it up to you, shouldn’t I be getting started?”

James lifted an eyebrow. “Tryin’ to get out of putting in your practise time?” His hands settled over Michael’s, weighing them down.

“As if I would do that,” Michael murmured. Leaning forward, he sucked kisses down James’ neck and shoulder, nudging the soft robe aside with his nose. As James’ back arched the robe gaped open further, and Michael greedily made use of the access, traveling along James’ chest, touching the tip of his tongue to James’ nipple, and then, when James’ hands tightened on his, giving it a nice, slow lick.

He settled in, kissing and licking, enjoying the breathy little gasps he drew from James. When Michael finally broke off, resting his forehead on James’ shoulder, a glance downward showed him James’ cock was bobbing with interest - shame he couldn’t get his mouth on _that_ , in their current position - and his own was a prominent bulge beneath his trousers. His thighs tightened of their own accord, and he shifted his weight from hip to hip, seeking stimulation or relief or please God a little of James’ attention for his neglected cock -

A kiss dropped behind Michael’s ear. “Suppose you are a tad overdressed,” James whispered, breath warm and close.

Michael nodded. Yes, yes he was. But James - predictably, damn him - didn’t start with Michael’s trousers; he worked the topmost button on Michael’s shirt instead, fingers softly skimming Michael’s chest as he pushed the placket aside. “I’m thinking,” James said. He punctuated this with a kiss just above the next button.

“Heaven help me, of course you are.” Michael made a valiant effort to keep his voice steady. It failed, and he earned a gentle nip for his sarcasm as well. 

But bless the man, James didn’t add to the punishment by taking away his fingers or his mouth; his lips slid along after his fingers, tracking from button to button, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “Thought you’d want to guess,” he murmured, head bent low, mouth moving over Michael’s rib cage. His voice was dripping with Scottish wickedness, and every word was a dare.

“No, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Practise - ahh. Practise is as practise does.”

James hummed against his skin. “You are doing rather well, aren’t you? Now that you’re applyin’ yourself.” He slipped down until he was on his knees on the hotel carpet, tucked between Michael’s spread legs. And Michael was a fish on a hook, suspended and helpless, eyes fixed on James’ mouth. He could hear his breath rasping in his lungs. Was James - he was certainly well positioned for it - was James planning to suck him?

Smiling as if he could read the thought all over Michael’s face, James spread his hands high on Michael’s thighs. He dipped down to press a gentle kiss to Michael’s cock through his trousers.

“Our premieres did happen at the same time,” he murmured, leaving his lips and cheek snugged right up against Michael’s cock. It pulsed hopefully. “Suppose it would only be fair if some other things happened at the same time as well.”

Michael’s fingers dug deep into the sofa. He concentrated on that, the give of the fabric beneath his hands, and on breathing. James said, “I’m waiting to hear what _you_ think.”

“I’m - I’m all about fairness, yeah.”

“Good.” James sat back on his heels. “Well. Let’s catch you up, then.”

Michael half expected a bit of a tease when it came to James removing his trousers: him lingering over the zip, nudging up against Michael’s cockhead, that sort of thing. James was all business, though, right down to a crisp, “Arse up,” that immediately had Michael lifting his cheeks up off the sofa so that James could slip his trousers off.

But when Michael was bare to the waist, with his white dress shirt gaping open as widely as James’ robe, James smiled gently. “There you are,” he said, and leaned in to give the base of Michael’s cock a soft, swift kiss. “Now let’s get you settled -” Standing, he hooked his hands beneath Michael’s knees and proceeded to arrange Michael’s body as it suited him.

Which… all right, lying stretched out on his back, Michael understood that. Lying with his head in the middle of the sofa and his feet dangling off the edge made a little less sense - until James got into position above him, top to tail. His knees settled on the cushion just above Michael’s head, and his mouth descended on Michael's, the angle both strange and delightful, James’ full upper lip ranging possessively over Michael’s bottom one.

Soon James was moving lower, expanding his territory. He kissed the cleft of Michael’s chin, the hollow of his throat, took a long, leisurely route down Michael’s chest, his warm body blanketing Michael as he traveled, the folds of his robe trailing over Michael’s skin. It brought the soft, secret parts of him deliciously within reach; his balls bumped gently against Michael’s forehead, his slightly softened cock nudged against Michael’s cheek. All it took was a little stretch, and Michael was mouthing at the base, working his way along that velvety skin, heading for the head.

Dimly, he realised James had stopped kissing, and was simply breathing with his mouth an inch away from Michael’s cock, warm air gusting over the tip. Beneath Michael’s lips, James was plumping nicely, sweet little pulses, and Michael knew with all the certainty of the desperately aroused that as soon as he coaxed James to swell past his foreskin, as soon as his tongue touched James’ slit, James would cross that last inch and suck him until he forgot his own name.

“Grab my arse,” James said, low.

Michael’s hands shot up to comply. They’d been flattened against the sofa again, he registered vaguely, he’d pressed them down at his sides without being told, but now they were pleasantly full of James’ round cheeks. He squeezed. 

James’ cock throbbed, and there, dancing in front of Michael’s lips, was his shiny cockhead, ripe for the taking.

And he'd been right. As soon as he tasted the tip, he found his own cock enveloped in James' warm, wet mouth. Just like with kissing, the angle was strange; he couldn't take James deep, only lick and suckle the head, and it was odd feeling his own cock bump low along James' tongue rather than nudging the roof of his mouth.

But _damn_ it felt good, being connected like this. Pleasing each other, loving each other. Michael had missed James tonight; his absence at the premiere had been a tangible ache Michael had carried with him in every moment. Still, he’d had it easy. All he'd had to do tonight was smile, prattle at industry people, and sit through the final cut of his film; the real work had been done months ago. James had been the one creating art out of thin air out there. Giving his all on his play’s opening night. 

Michael wanted to mend that. He wanted to go back in time and sit in that theatre, watch James command the stage, watch him shine.

But James was commanding him now. And Michael was thinking too much. It was keeping him from focusing on James properly, from gauging his reactions to the offerings of Michael’s lips and tongue, from reading what he needed in the way his cock twitched or the muscles in his arse flexed. And it was stopping Michael from giving in completely as James worked him over, proving as he always did that good things came to those who waited. Michael let himself feel it: James’ fist, heavy and warm and just tight enough, dragging slowly up the base of Michael’s cock; James’ mouth, hot and slick and unhurried over the head. 

_James_ was focused. James was setting a pace that was going to do it for Michael very, very soon. Michael was throbbing, hips thrusting gently, needily upwards, hands squeezing James’ arse to the rhythm of that hand on his cock, whole body at the mercy of James’ tune -

Michael knew the little tells of James’ body well enough to know James wasn’t nearly as close himself. But he also knew that James was doing precisely what he wanted to do, and if he was ready for Michael to come now, then that was going to happen. James was going to get what he wanted - 

He tensed, balls drawing up tight, and his body jerked so hard that James’ cock fell out of his mouth and slapped against his cheek. Michael shuddered and breathed through it, nose nestled behind James’ balls, while James coughed and sputtered and wiped his mouth in the folds of his robe. As soon as he was able, Michael applied himself with renewed dedication, licking and sucking James’ cock until James was stiff and fat and pulsing. He knew it was going well when James cursed and pressed his forehead into the crease of Michael’s thigh; when James began to rock back on his knees, driving his arse up into Michael’s hands, Michael squeezed his fingers hard enough to leave marks, and James came, swearing a stream of absolute filth into Michael's leg.

Together they’d wrecked a hotel robe. Possibly a sofa. And, thanks to Michael’s complete inability to swallow at an angle like that - not that James had done any better, mind you - Michael’s face. 

A little collateral damage was to be expected when you were saving Valentine’s Day.

Michael rubbed his sticky chin on the back of James’ thigh, and got a breathless laugh in return. James twisted around above him, sprawling out warm and sated across Michael’s chest. They’d done exactly that: they’d saved the night, made it into something perfectly, uniquely theirs.

Tomorrow, they would share with each other the stories they’d told earlier, the ones the world had already seen. In the morning James would see Michael’s film, and in the evening he’d sit in James’ theatre, third row centre, hands pressed down neatly at his sides against the narrow theatre seat. Whether James could see or not. It would feel right.

Tonight, they would breathe together in the sweet, slow harmony of the small hours, content in the pages of their own story, in no hurry for the sun to rise.


End file.
